


And They Were Roommates - UNDER CONSTRUCTION, NOT ABANDONED. PARDON THE MESS

by shantiballecter



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst and Humor, Antisemitism, Binge Drinking, Blood and Violence, Enemies to Friends, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, First Part in a Series, Frederick Chilton is a Professor and Bad at It, Friends to Enemies, Good Guy Jack Crawford, Hannibal is Hannibal, Heavy Angst, Homophobic Vandalism, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Attempted Rape, Instant Justice, Justice is a good PUNCH TO THE FACE, M/M, Masturbation, Murder, Mutual Pining, Not Between the Mains, Not Set in the Present, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Passive Aggressive Emails, Recreational Drug Use, Roommates, Slow Burn, Spooning, The Crawfords are Professors, The First Part Doesn't End Well, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unresolved Sexual Tension, or five
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-04-16 20:50:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14173128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shantiballecter/pseuds/shantiballecter
Summary: Hartwell College is a private, liberal arts, undergraduate school whose science departments rank the best among its peers. Its rural setting means the bulk of students' time is spent on-campus, making its robust student activities budget a necessity. From campus-wide parties (kegs included) to restaurant-catered study breaks, Hartwellians live and breathe in a glorified sardine tin. (Overlapping sexual networks and enough drama to satisfy the evil-aligned also included.)Going into his 18th birthday, Will Graham realizes three things: he's never left his father's side for longer than ten hours, slept under any roof but their own, or spent more than two years at one school. As he fills out college applications and narrows down his first choice—with an enrollment of 1,800 and nestled in the east coast—he thinks the potential for close-knit social stability seems... healthy. Overdue. He could, however, do without the policy requiring students live with a roommate for their first two years.He chooses Hartwell anyway. Come June, he fills out the roommate match survey (e.g. how clean do you keep your room, how late do you stay up on weekdays, would you like to be matched with an international student) and he waits.





	1. RE: RE:

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Promise: No rape/noncon or underage**. It's implied that a certain character (not the mains) would've raped a drunk person if this person's friends hadn't intervened. (Always watch out for each other, everyone.) If I end up writing dubcon, I'll warn for it in the beginning chapter notes and tag for it.
> 
> Disclaimer: Hannigram in canon is definitely not a healthy relationship, and neither will it be here (for now). Always consume media of your problematic faves responsibly <3

The assignment email comes the first weekend of August. It advises that both parties coordinate what they'll bring with them— _"No need for two stereos!"_ —and provides the other's name and email address. A "Hannibal Lecter." Okay, sure.

As for the room, Will thinks he's lucked out. Earlier in the summer, he'd checked the College's website for floor plans and blurbs of each dorm—he remembers Gallagher Hall being in a pretty central location. (Plus, its Gothic architecture and 2 four-story towers ensure it features in most of the prospective student literature.) He opens the plan for the third floor of it now and smiles.

It's one of the rooms sandwiched between the towers. The east window, its view partially obscured as a result, faces an open field between the rec and student centers; the west faces the treeline and registrar's office across the street. The room's longer than most, sitting at the end of the hall and looking suspiciously like a reconverted lounge, with a closet sticking out of a corner on either end and the door splitting the room in half. Ultimately the square footage appears to be smaller than other doubles, but privacy-wise? It's a victory.

He'll take it.

\- - - - -

> To: Lecter, Hannibal [lecterha@hartwell.edu]  
>  From: Graham, William [grahamwi1@hartwell.edu]  
>  Date: Sun, Aug 5, 1:09 PM  
>  Subject: Your Roommate
> 
> I'm assuming you've read the housing assignment email by now. Letting you know I'm only bringing the basics with me and am not interested in renting that microwave/mini fridge combo, so you can go all out. I'll be on campus on the 20th for a pre-orientation program.
> 
> See you in three weeks.  
>  Will
> 
>  
> 
> To: Graham, William [grahamwi1@hartwell.edu]  
>  From: Lecter, Hannibal [lecterha@hartwell.edu]  
>  Date: Sun, Aug 5, 3:30 PM  
>  Subject: RE: Your Roommate
> 
> Hello Will,
> 
> Thank you for letting me know. I will also be arriving on the 20th. If you are taking the morning shuttle from the airport, we will meet then.
> 
> Seeing you in two weeks,  
>  Hannibal
> 
>  
> 
> To: Lecter, Hannibal [lecterha@hartwell.edu]  
>  From: Graham, William [grahamwi1@hartwell.edu]  
>  Date: Mon, Aug 6, 12:48 PM  
>  Subject: RE: RE: Your Roommate
> 
> I'm taking the bus.  
>  Will  
> 

\- - - - -

Will can't say why exactly Hannibal's email upset him—maybe it's that he won't have one week with the room to himself after all—but he can't be bothered to care about sending a curt, passive-aggressive reply.

That none of the library staff is shushing the boys playing video games at the computers across from him… doesn't help. (He's tempted to shush them himself, albeit with a fist.) He grinds his teeth and continues scrolling through his inbox.

An email from his peer mentor takes him by surprise. She introduces herself as a sophomore from D.C., still undeclared but debating between philosophy and psychology, and who enjoys reading in the on-campus café and hosting movie nights in her dorm. She seems really nice, and he wants to put a face to the name. When he looks her up in the student directory, he thinks, _Oh shit_. Because already he has a crush.

Alana Bloom has long, dark hair; blue eyes; full, pink lips; and a very sweet smile. He can very clearly see her in the position of the mentee only a year ago. Not quite shy but soft-spoken and endearingly taking to heart all the advice handed down by her own mentor. Fresh faced and eager despite (or because of?) being in such a new and intimidating setting, given a life spent in the city.

He very much doubts he'll make a good impression on anyone with his own future photo.

An "OH SHIT, DUDE!" from one of the boys pulls him from his reverie, and Will gives a triumphant huff at watching a staff member approach to reprimand all of them. Once she's walked away, though, a different boy mumbles, "What a cunt," and suddenly the boy's neck looks very snappable. Will hears a very satisfactory crack echo in his mind.

He logs off and leaves behind the moldy carpet smell of the small brick building. Only as he walks back home through heavy summer heat does he realize he never replied to Alana.


	2. No Climax for Early Birds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before reading this, you should know [I accepted this headcanon so hard](http://axmxz.tumblr.com/post/108871947762/soviethannibal-headcanon-3), except my Hannibal was born, uh, more recently.

The shuttle ride from the bus station leaves Will feeling caged in, skittish. The two other students had climbed into the middle and back rows with their bags, forcing him to ride shotgun. The driver, polite enough and not obnoxiously talkative, had nonetheless come off as... flirty. _Christ_.

Now, after a quick stop at the student center to retrieve his room key and temporary keycard, Will stands in front of his building. Bags in hand. Waiting.

Not sure what to feel or what he'd expected would happen, he stares at the worn and dirty brickwork that surrounds the glass double doors; it has nothing better to say for itself. He realizes the drawback of moving in a week early is things become anticlimactic.

A singular voice echoes from a corner two dorms away, and one nasal, cackling laugh rings out from somewhere above him. For all that he's lived in food desert towns where a Walmart is an hour's drive, he's never felt more taunted by tumbleweeds. He's too cognizant of being alone.

His roommate will have arrived by now. "Hannibal Lecter." Who _flew_ in and probably didn't have to wrestle away his checked bag from a loiterer. It's one hell of a bandaid to rip off, but here goes meeting the next poor bastard who's stuck with Will's nightmares.

He hauls his bags up the two flights of stairs and walks to the end of the hall, his door already ajar. He sighs. _I didn't even get to unlock it for the first time_ , he thinks. When he pushes the door open with his foot, he doesn't sight his new home either. Instead, a very angular face stares back.

"Will, good to meet you," Hannibal greets, hands clasped in front of him, polite.

Maybe _overly_ polite, Will notes. "Same." He focuses his gaze on Hannibal's forehead and forces a smile.

"I placed my bags on the left side, as I believe it will be quieter. I did not settle in, however, if you want to flip a coin for it." He smiles. _Overly_ polite.

"Right is good. Thanks."

"Unless you would like to bunk our beds on one end and place our desks on the other."

"Uh. I want my own side."

"Very well." Hannibal looks at him a half-second too long, then looks at his bags. "Are there other bags I can help you carry?"

"Nope. Just these. I'm a minimalist."

A slight nod. "Very practical, not to fill a small shared space with the comforts of home," he observes. "You will note I did not 'go all out' myself. However, I hear there will be an art sale of sorts during orientation, and I plan to buy things then."

Will quirks his brow.

"Wall posters," Hannibal clarifies, "and I imagine most will be of the popular culture type, but one can hope."

"You hoping to ticky-tac the Mona Lisa onto our wall?"

Hannibal's smile at that strikes Will as genuine.

"I find the Mona Lisa very underwhelming," Hannibal says, "and tourists who flock to her but not other, greater paintings have no real appreciation of art. They want to look at something everyone says is great, so they may check it off their lists."

Will processes all of that in increments. "You've been to the Louvre," he states in a flat tone.

"I live in Paris and would not miss going on a regular basis."

Oh. "You don't sound French."

"I'm not."

Will makes fleeting eye contact. If ever Hannibal's face showed animosity, it shows only something like curiosity now. He bristles at that more than he would at animosity.

His subconscious observations catch up with him then, of this slightly taller, long-limbed young man (because age aside, Hannibal stopped being a boy long ago). Light brown hair, slightly darker eyes. Gaunt-looking but not sickly. Athletic but not a jock. Dressed in nice clothing and more than well-off, but not peacocking. Probably an international student from... somewhere in Eurasia. And, somehow, very serious but relaxed and content. At ease in his skin in a way Will could never be. "Well. It is never too late to have the comforts of home shipped," he enunciates, "should the poster selection underwhelm."

Hannibal gives an infinitesimal tilt of his head. "Not practical to ship real paintings, unfortunately, but I suppose I could order something online."

"I suppose so." Hannibal must be watching him like a specimen, and they're less than five minutes in. Will clenches his jaw and turns away.

Finally he gets to see his side of the room, with its gunky, oft-painted-over, off-white walls and a beige curtain acting as a closet door. The worn oak dresser matches the worn oak lofted bed and desk underneath. A popcorn ceiling; white, speckled laminate floor; body-length mirror screwed onto the door; and beige window curtain top it off. Overall, it's less dated than many of the places he's lived in. "I am going to take the loss of space and 'de-loft' my bed," he announces, dropping his bags to the side.

"You do not like sleeping top bunk?"

Will moves the chair out of the way and starts dragging the desk to the opposite wall. "I am not a fan of injuring myself more than necessary when a nightmare drops me from the bed."

When he turns, he startles at seeing Hannibal removing the dowels from the frame, then shifting into position to lift.

Hannibal looks back at him and smiles. "On three?"

\- - - - -

Will agrees to dinner together. A shared meal with a roommate should happen at least once, he figures, especially when said roommate helped with heavy lifting.

The dining hall, like the student center it resides in, has a modern look incongruous with most of the buildings around campus. Shiny metal surfaces, a wide dining area with plenty of natural light filtering through floor to ceiling windows, and across from it a smaller dining space with booths instead of long tables, and a veranda above it.

Food offerings range from homestyle dishes to cheeseburgers and fries, vegan curry to pizza and pasta. A salad bar sits across a station for made-to-order sandwiches and subs. The dessert bar includes a soft serve machine with vanilla and chocolate ice cream.

This he learned mostly from reading the website. What actually faces them today and likely for the next week is a lot of empty counters and bare-bones offerings.

He settles for a grilled cheese sandwich, an apple, and what appears to be an attempt at dirty rice. He fills his cup with orange juice because he can, sits at a corner booth, and waits.

Hannibal finds him three minutes later, balancing in one hand his tray of salad that's a goddamn work of art, orange slices arranged around a dollop of whipped cream, and a cup of water and another of cranberry juice. "Closest thing to wine," he sighs as he sits.

"Are you… serious?"

Hannibal frowns. "Of course."

"Is that a French thing, wine with dinner? Or a wherever-you're-actually-from thing?" _Or just a rich thing_ …

"Maybe this is a 'me' thing," he teases.

Now Will frowns.

Hannibal takes a fork and knife to the chicken breast on his salad. "To answer your implied question, my ancestral home is in Lithuania. However, my father lived most of his life in Russia, and my mother was born and raised in Italy. I have lived with my aunt and uncle in Paris since I was ten. Moscow before that."

"So… better question. Where is your accent from?"

"I will let you know when it decides. And yours?"

"Mostly Louisiana. Mississippi. It did a stint in Alabama once."

"Do you speak French?"

"Not much. A counselor told me studying Spanish would be more practical. After the requisite two years, I learned how to say _'El gato es rojo'_ and _'Tengo un plátano enorme.'_ "

"Very practical."

Will huffs into his cup. "It's what happens when you hop from school to school, I guess."

"You moved often?"

Hannibal hasn't once looked uninterested during their conversation, but something about his expression now seems… particularly interested. Will realizes he's revealing too much. "You know three languages then?"

"French, English, Russian, Italian, some Lithuanian, and some Japanese. I am also studying Latin."

"The hell."

"As I said, my mother was Italian. My father taught me what Lithuanian he could remember, but I have no interest in returning to his home. My aunt is Japanese. I find Latin very practical, especially as it will help my studies in medicine. English, of course, because it is inescapable in today's world."

Asking about Hannibal's use of past tense is hardly first day material, though he gets the sense it wouldn't be a sore subject. Despite himself, he's starting to reciprocate Hannibal's interest. "By that logic you should learn Chinese."

"I do not plan to live in China, whereas I am thinking of practicing medicine here."

"Might as well throw in Spanish."

"Maybe you can teach me."

"Repeat after me: _la biblioteca tiene hambre_."

"The library…?"

"Is hungry."

Hannibal smiles wide. "Are you projecting? You've barely touched your food."

"The rice is terrible. I've had better from a microwavable pouch. I mean, I'll eat it all eventually. I'm just in a state of denial, maybe bargaining."

"And the fried bread and cheese concoction?"

"I think they used real cheddar, which is… jarring… when you're used to dollar store American cheese slices." Again, revealing too much.

"As I understand, that is not actually cheese."

Will shrugs. "It says 'cheese product' on the label. Surprised it's not 'by-product' instead."

They fall silent as they finish their meal, both eating every last bite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> El gato es rojo: the cat is red  
> Tengo un plátano enorme: I have an enormous plantain/a huge banana
> 
> Hannibal being Hannibal, of course his English fluency is off the charts, BUT. He's a teenager who's just arrived in the US; I think it would be unrealistic and unfair to people who learn English as a foreign language (and to polyglots in general) to have him sounding like a native speaker. My (long-winded) goal for writing his dialogue: staying clear for now of more complex sentence structures that I don't think would come easy to anybody who hasn't been immersed from day one in this hellscape language of exceptions and irregularities. However, I'm keeping noticeable mistakes in usage (if any) to a minimum because doing otherwise would feel like straying from character too much.


	3. Between Two Dicks and a Hard Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You would not believe how long I deliberated and suffered to make this: [a handy illustration](https://thebeefispeople.tumblr.com/post/173593140782/for-this-thing-I-have-going-over-here) showing just how fucked their room is, especially Will's side ^_^

Hannibal despises Will Graham.

Will's first email had been straight to the point—Hannibal wasn't going to begrudge him that. He finds get-to-know-you emails banal.

The second email, however, comes almost exactly 24 hours later and serves but one purpose: to reject. Sitting at his desk, giving idle taps to the side of his laptop, Hannibal wants but one thing as a response: to destroy.

He closes out of his email and dresses for an evening walk. At [the Boulogne](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bois_de_Boulogne), he feeds the ducks and the swans, and he hunts for long boar. He listens for loud ones, tries to see in them an abrasive American who hides behind a computer screen. Only in his mind does he slaughter them. For now.

\- - - - -

The stairwell door at the end of the hall opens, followed by quick footsteps. Hannibal rises from his desk chair, stands in the middle of the room, and waits.

When Will Graham pushes open the door, he startles to see Hannibal there and furrows his brow. His wavy, shoulder-length hair looks unwashed, the duffel bags he carries in either hand have tears and scuff marks, and his threadbare t-shirt reeks of sweat. The very air around him is stale, suggesting a much longer bus trip than Hannibal had assumed.

He is not at all as Hannibal had expected, especially evident after two minutes of conversing. Will's speech shifts into something less skittish, words no longer running together and spoken in a deeper pitch. Save for the American accent, it sounds a lot like Hannibal's own.

It is then Hannibal decides this boy interests him. Looking into Will's eyes, he also finds the world has beauty enough, after all, to make him forgiving.

\- - - - -

They begin unpacking in earnest after dinner.

Will takes neat, rolled-up bundles of clothing from one of his duffel bags and deposits them into his dresser drawers, foregoing his closet except to store the bag itself.

"If you will not use your closet, maybe we can make a deal," Hannibal says.

Will continues making his bed. "Oh?"

"Your side of the room is very crowded. If you allow me to use your closet for seasonal clothes and such, you can move your dresser into my side of the room."

He snorts. "I didn't even use my bottom drawer, and here you are with your first world problems."

A pause. "You want me to feel shame because of my wardrobe?"

Will turns as Hannibal unpacks an unassuming crew neck. "Is that one of those shirts that's meant to look worn and cheap but that actually costs $200?"

Hannibal frowns and looks down at the folded bundle in his hands. "It cost 60 €."

"It's a plain blue shirt."

"It's very soft."

Will stares, unimpressed. "Do what you want, but I'm not moving my dresser, thanks."

"Will, you have less than a meter between your desk and bed. If you move your dresser into the middle—"

"It's fine."

Hannibal drops the subject, and they finish unpacking and settle in for the night. Will is re-reading one of the two paperbacks he brought with him—lying on his back in bed, feet dangling over the edge—and Hannibal is finishing his skincare routine when a knock on the door disrupts the loaded silence.

"For you," Will says, not looking up.

"I am not expecting visitors."

"I'm not welcoming any."

Hannibal purses his lips and screws the lid over his moisturizer before he answers the door. An attractive young woman smiles in greeting. "Hi. I'm looking for Will?"

Amused, Hannibal projects, "Will, you have a visitor! Come welcome..."

"Alana."

"Alana," he finishes. "Nice to meet you, Alana. I am not Will but his roommate, Hannibal." He offers his hand.

Alana shakes it with a firm grip. "Nice to meet you, too, Hannibal. Sorry to drop by so late." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

"No bother. Will and I were lamenting the lack of social interaction."

Will stares daggers at the back of Hannibal's head as he climbs off the bed. Hannibal steps aside when Will reaches the doorway. "Hi. Will. You're my mentor."

"I am."

Hannibal notes that Will's speech rights itself to its initial form, as does his body language. He listens from his desk for a shift into Alana's lilted tones, but the changes are subtle.

\- - - - -

The next morning finds Will and Alana in a large meeting space in the student center. Red-orange plastic chairs with metal frames are arranged to face a projector screen at the front. Will saw enough of this building yesterday to know the chairs are as ubiquitous as they are uncomfortable to sit in.

A few pairs of students sit scattered among the rows of red-orange hell; Will makes sure to sit at the back corner, away from the modest snack setup of cookies and lemonade.

"This program isn't only about mentoring, you know," Alana says during a lull in their small talk. "You can meet people here and have friends before all the freshman arrive and things get more hectic."

Will looks around the mostly empty room. "You consider this hectic?"

She smiles. "I think _you_ think it's hectic. You look like bonding with people will literally pain you."

"I can bond," he protests.

"Good."

"Did _you_ bond?"

"I met my best friend and now roommate. You might run into her soon. She's not a mentor, but she's here early working in the dining hall."

"What's her name?"

"Julie."

"Then I'll be on the lookout for Julie."

"You do that." She smiles again and nods toward a small group forming in the middle of the room. "Want to start meeting people?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"Do you have any pain killers handy?"

She gives him a quelling look, and Will feigns innocence. A brief, good-natured staring contest ensues until Alana laughs and stands, beckoning him to follow. "No pain to be found here, I promise. Peter is good people."

"Can you vouch for the whole posse?"

Alana considers this, or pretends to. "Good point. I'll protect you if it comes to that."

"You do _that_." 

Peter turns out to have a soft voice and a bird-like face; Will can't detect a single mean bone in his body and likes him immediately. Meeting and talking to everyone else goes well enough: where are you from, what are you thinking of studying, where else did you apply. Safe stuff. Boring. Until Peter asks, "What dorm are you in?"

"Gallagher."

"Cool," says one of the guys whose name Will never caught, "do you live in the Dicks?"

"Um...?"

"Are you in one of the towers?" Peter clarifies.

"Right in between, actually. They're called the Dicks?" Will asks no one in particular.

"Or the Two Towers, if you're a Tolkien fan," Peter says.

"Third floor, right?" asks the guy.

"Yeah?"

"I know who lives under you. It's a popular room because it has loggia access, and it's separated by the towers. You can throw a 'private' party or fall asleep there, and no one from the adjacent rooms can bother you. Makes up for being narrow as shit. Yours doesn't come with any perks. Unless you feel like scaling the outside..."

"No, thank you. Are we allowed on the loggia?" he asks Alana. "There's nothing preventing people from falling."

"Well—"

The guy shrugs and talks over her (Will assigns him the name Asshole). "No one's fallen to their death yet, so the administration doesn't care." He smirks.

Will blinks once, slowly. "Not that easy to die from a one-story fall."

Asshole chuckles. "Pretty much everyone's reasoning. No one's so much as broken a bone, as far as I know."

An echo of a former classmate drawls over Will's shoulder, _I could fix that real quick_ , and Will feels warmth pressed against the pad of his left index finger. When he drives his finger forward, it meets resistance for a second only. _Easy._ The warmth disappears, and he hears a thud and Asshole's pained scream from a story down. He swallows back bile. "That's—good."

Among all the school bullies Will met, he'd been the only textbook sociopath. He'd sickened Will to his core, and yet...

Feedback from the mic up front jolts Will from his thoughts. "Good morning, everyone!" a woman greets, and the start of planned activities sets Will free.


	4. Gay Cookie Jars

Their second morning together, Hannibal finishes dressing as Will returns from the shower. The faded, celeste towel draped over his hips has a few snagged threads. In lieu of a proper shower caddy, a white plastic bag, covered in rows of red THANK YOUs and lacking a business name on it, contains his toiletries. His rubber thong sandals have smooth soles.

The image Will makes matches everything else about him thus far. Hannibal had watched him unpack overly thin cotton t-shirts, worn jeans, socks and undershirts with holes, yet none of it with stains. What belongings he has, he cares for. He keeps them to the bitter end.

In that way, Hannibal feels a kinship. He hates waste as well: wasted words, wasted food, wasted life. Robertas and the Lady Murasaki may have transplanted him into a comfortable Parisian existence, but he will always know the weight of losing everything.

Come to find out Hannibal is not immune to jet lag, regrettably, and rose at 0300 yesterday. (By 0500 he had scoped out the best hunting areas within a square mile. Just for fun.) Planned activities with the international students prevented him from catching even a glimpse of Will until twenty minutes before they went to bed, with zero words exchanged between them. Their continued lack of interaction cannot stand. 

He watches on as Will enters the walk-in closet to put on underwear and jeans then emerges. His chest and arms are toned and mostly hairless, though his armpits seem to have almost as much hair as his head, and Hannibal smiles at that. He catalogues the large swell of Will's ass, more noticeable while he remains shirtless, and breaks the silence. "Are you having breakfast with your peers?" he asks, knowing the pre-orientation programs only host lunches.

"I"—a brief silence as Will threads his arms then head through a t-shirt—"am fixing to meet Alana in town."

The information and the colloquialism both give him pause. "For breakfast in a restaurant?"

Will's back straightens after he puts on socks, he makes eye contact, and he frowns. "I'm not dirt-poor, if that's what's got your eyebrows up your scalp."

His expression shifts into something impassive. "I didn't—"

"And even if I _were_ ," Will grits out while tying his shoelaces with stiff movements, "she has a voucher for us to eat for free 'among the locals,' courtesy of Student Affairs. We are cashing it in early."

That old hatred of a faceless Will Graham begins bubbling up again. If he's honest with himself, however, the brunt of his anger is for Alana. "Enjoy your meal," he says, and walks to the dining hall alone.

\- - - - -

Alana is bleeding.

Her white summer dress has prominent blotches of red along her chest, hip, and thigh, as if from multiple stab or gunshot wounds. Smaller stains made by clutching, bloody fingers mar the cotton along her abdomen.

Her smile shines bright when she sees Will approaching.

"Mornin'," he greets. The image rights itself, and blood becomes red and pink roses rendered in great detail.

"Morning." She doesn't make to enter the diner just yet. "Will, I never got to talk to you in private yesterday, after... you know. I just want to say I'm sorry for putting you through that. I never had the displeasure of meeting Donnie before."

_Donnie. Donnie Asshole. Has a nice ring to it_ , he muses. "I'm sorry he was rude to you."

"I spent a good part of last year navigating the waters of men talking over me, and I'm getting better at putting my foot down. With yesterday's incident being so brief, I didn't say anything. Pick your battles and all that. But if it had gone on longer, I assure you..." She smiles. Though her tone is light, Will knows she means it.

He smiles back. "I believe you. He had an air of arrogance about him. I wanted to punch him in the face."

Alana tries holding in her laugh but fails fantastically. "A lot of faces around here could use a good punching. You're going to need to pick your battles, too."

He opens the bright orange door to Tita's Kitchen and holds it for her. "Then you must teach me, Obi-Wan."

\- - - - - 

The end of scheduled activities for the day leaves Will and his peers walking back from the registrar's office. He considers trailing behind everyone else on their way to the dining hall, but he decides to take a breather in his room. Dinner will be less crowded if he shows up later, anyway.

He enters Gallagher through a back door for the first time, where a narrow staircase leads down to the basement floor. He explores it briefly, mainly to look inside the laundry room, before he heads back upstairs. He's almost to the end of the hall when he passes a bulletin board with a printout of a retro My Little Pony. "Welcome to Gallagher 2nd," it reads.

Well. Wrong floor.

He begins retracing his steps and startles to see a trio of students sitting on the floor, back to the wall. He accidentally makes eye contact with the one closest to him: a girl whose face is framed by voluminous jet black hair.

"Hey!" she greets. 

"Hi." Will's so very close to the stairwell, if he can just—

"What're you here for?" she asks.

"Uh. As in now?"

"You're not a part of SPOCK. with us, and your accent seems pretty domestic to me. You a first-generation?"

Will doesn't detect judgment in her tone but feels self-conscious anyway. He notes that the trio's hair forms a gradient, with a guy in the middle having curly, dark brown hair and a guy at the end having short, medium blonde hair. They also seem to be organized by level of friendliness, given that the latter has yet to look up. "Yeah...?" he drawls.

"Me, too," says the one in between, raising his hand above his head and waving it, "I just also wanted to science."

"'Science' as a verb. I like it," says the one at the end, still intent on writing.

"What are you going to major in?" she asks Will.

"I don't know yet. Science is okay."

She smiles. "You any good at it?"

"Got all As in high school."

"Seems good enough to me. Beverly Katz." A small wave, then she points to her right. "Brian Zeller."

"Yo," Brian says, once again looking up from his reading to smile.

"And at the end," Beverly continues, "Jimmy, definitely-not- _James_ , Price."

Jimmy huffs. (Will thinks he hears him mumble "damn right.") 

Their introductions over, Will realizes he's yet to school his face into something less blank. His lips twitch out the closest thing to a smile he can manage, and he offers, "Will, definitely-not- _William_ , Graham?"

"Come sit, Will Graham," Beverly says, patting the spot on the floor to her left.

Now Will does smile.

"I suppose I could've also asked if you were here for writing camp, but you don't seem the type."

"Ouch?"

Beverly grins and shakes her head. "We walked past a group of them sitting on the grass outside the humanities building, and it was like all the guys were dressed to bring back the beatnik movement."

"Personally I was shocked they hadn't built a shrine to Kerouac yet," Brian says.

"It doesn't even make sense," she continues, "writing camp is to improve your writing skills in general, for college. It's not like there's a focus on creative writing."

"Maybe this school just attracts beatniks?" Will offers.

"It sure attracts hipsters," Jimmy says, "I saw them when I visited in the spring."

Beverly scrunches her face and looks at Will, who mirrors the look and laughs. "So, where's your room?" she asks.

"Third floor. Got turned around a little. You all live down here?"

"Only I do," Jimmy says, "these two just like to follow me."

"More like you demanded we study with you," Brian counters.

Will scans through what he can read over Beverly's shoulder. "How do you have homework already?"

Beverly shrugs. "They're giving us a feel for college assignments. Definitely different when your entire high school career revolved around passing state benchmark exams."

"Thank 'No Child Left Behind,'" Brian grumbles.

Now Jimmy looks up and plops his pen on the ground. "I went to Catholic school. Let me tell you, it's better to have pointless exams interfering with your education than to sit through entire lectures on the sin that is the 'homosexual lifestyle.'"

Brian snorts. "Get caught with your hand in the cookie jar?"

"None of me was found near someone's cookie jar but, I assure you, only out of sheer luck."

Beverly groans. "Gross use of metaphor, guys."

"Beverly, would you like to lead a lecture on homosexual sin?" Brian asks.

"Yeah, don't sin by associating cookies with anal fisting."

"It's the gay agenda," Jimmy says, "I don't make the rules." With that, he picks up his pen and resumes writing.

"Pfft. This guy," Brian mumbles, already back to reading.

It strikes Will that he's never had a conversation about gay people _with_ gay people, at least not anyone who was out. It's damn refreshing.

Beverly elbows him. "See what you could have if you join Team Science?"

For the first time since stepping foot on campus, Will feels himself relaxing and thinking about friendship. "I'll keep it in mind."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're on mobile and couldn't see the acronym tag, SPOCK is Science Pre-orientation Camp (of Knowledge, unofficially, because everyone's a dork). Will knows what SPOC is because select freshmen received invites in the mail. Could I have incorporated this into the chapter so that I didn't need an explanation in the end notes? Probably.
> 
> I came across [this dress](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/5a/71/ea/5a71ea03739c62375be9398b8346ecd4.jpg) while searching for Alana fashion inspiration, and then I wrote that blood bit around it. Because how could anyone NOT see blood from afar?? (Pretty dress, though. [Here's another version](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/768215648911349625/).)


	5. Adjacent Spouses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all. This chapter **fought me**. Sorry I'm late, and here's the longest update yet  <3

Dinner with Beverly and them goes well: never a dull moment or an awkward silence. When a dessert excursion leaves Will alone with Jimmy, Will surprises himself by carrying the conversation.

They're all lollygagging at a corner booth, just about to mobilize back to Gallagher, when three international students speaking in Korean sit at a nearby table.

"My people!" Beverly cries, and like that Will's side of the booth is half-empty. He watches them give her a warm welcome, gently correcting her as she stumbles over a few words.

"I wish I'd find _my_ people," Brian says.

Jimmy smacks his arm. "Beverly _is_ your people, you grump."

"Yeah, what's up with that?! She gets to have two peoples!" Brian looks to Will for sympathy. "Two peoples, Graham."

"That's generally how being biracial works, yeah."

Jimmy snorts. "A man of dry humor is a man after my heart."

Will laughs, especially as Brian continues giving mock upset looks at Beverly's table. "Her last name's Katz, so... If you're Orthodox Jewish..."

The smack Jimmy gives to the tabletop jostles their trays, and he leans forward, delighted. "Nope! She told me Katz is her biological mom's last name. Korean donor father. Matrilineal descent, baby!"

Brian frowns. "What, so now she has _two moms_ , too?!"

"That's still just two parents."

Brian ignores that. "Does it make me a horrible person if I'm a little bit, kinda-sorta jealous and maybe bitter?"

"Yep," Will and Jimmy say.

It comes so easy, somehow: Will's absorption into their little group. His friendships have always started the same way—being approached by another, someone else deciding to keep him around—but he's never _fit_ so well. Maybe some of the hype is real and college really does provide one with lifelong friends. For once, maybe he'll know the milestone of a yearlong friendship.

As he says his goodbyes for the night, he thinks about the dinner with Hannibal that he can't say was awful or even unpleasant. And yesterday's dinner with Alana; Peter; and Peter's equally kind-hearted mentee, Molly, was nice. Comfortable. He thinks, too, of the lunches that always are pretty awful. If tonight's anything to go by, meals from now on will be not only un-awful but good. Social interactions will extend past mealtimes. He will find that ever-elusive normalcy at last.

How could anything else compare?

\- - - - -

Hannibal is twirling his pen.

He is twirling his pen irritably.

Stripped of his beauty, Will Graham boils down to a mimic with a surly disposition. They have shared little in the way of conversation, and nothing fascinating has come from their interactions. Truth be told, Hannibal has felt greater physical attraction in his life than what he feels for Will Graham. Yet his interest is more than piqued, and he cannot parse out _why_.

This waify American with ridiculous grey/blue/green eyes that Hannibal wants for himself, to hold them in his palm and sketch them endlessly, fruitlessly. This smooth faced [kappa](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kappa_\(folklore\)) who washes his face with body soap. Who does not use conditioner. Who reads without glasses on in bed but does read with them in public. Hannibal checked: his glasses are not prescription. They are glasses for show, a tortoise shell framed shield from the world.

A prickly boy who hides. This is who occupies far too many of Hannibal's thoughts, given nobody should be occupying his thoughts in the first place.

He wonders if this hold over him could be something as pedestrian as a clutch for a "rebound" relationship. Someone his own age. Perhaps he imprinted on the first pretty face he saw.

He twirls his pen angrily.

The pretty face returns then—smelling of a garlic-heavy dinner and of someone who isn't Alana. Hannibal hears the loud squeak of bedsprings followed by a contented sigh, and no, this will not do.

Come morning, he waits for Will to leave for the day, and he transfers clothing from his closet into Will's. He sits at his desk and looks at Will's chair, then he stands and pulls Will's desk an inch closer. At exactly 1640, he arrives at the culminating event of the pre-orientation programs and leans against a column opposite the door. He watches as faces from the writing and science camps filter in and take their seats, then the first-generations.

"So this is where you've been," he says, after approaching the chairs from behind and slipping into one.

" _MOTHER OF_ —! Hey."

"Did I scare you, Will? I apologize."

"S'fine."

"The first generation program? We never said where we go every morning."

"Pretty easy to guess."

"I disagree."

The planned ice breakers begin. Most require everyone leave their seats and scatter across the expansive open area within the circle of chairs. Hannibal smells the not-Alana at one point but does not seek their face.

His eyes are for Will, who looks strained among the commotion, even among people who seem to know him. At one point Will goes to a young woman with jet black hair and smiles at her, and Hannibal wonders if this is Not-Alana.

Hannibal approaches in silence once the activities end and Will's standing alone. "I believed your statement sincere," he says (Will does not jump this time), "and I hung my seasonal clothing in your closet. You are welcome to move your dresser or desk at any time, of course." A pause. "Will you join me for dinner?"

Will looks caught off guard. "That's fine—the first part is. But I'm meeting up with people."

Hannibal gives him a blank look. "Very well."

\- - - - -

Freshmen Orientation comes and goes. Hannibal buys his posters, Will continues to stink of others, and excitable freshmen and their families make too much noise. He and Will share that also: a silent bitterness toward those who did not arrive alone. Parents and siblings and other insufferable smiling faces attending special events held for their benefit and making a point to meet the roommates and hallmates.

Will and Hannibal keep their door closed.

\- - - - -

Alana was right, of course. Hundreds of freshmen start moving in and everything becomes hectic. Will needs time alone after dinner and lies in bed staring at the ceiling for days, it seems. It turns out to be less than an hour; he doesn't hear Hannibal rise from his desk but knows him to be at his side, ready to rouse Will for the final event of freshman orientation.

It's a talk by the Dean of Students in the concert hall. He agrees to walk there together, hoping to find Bev and them once he arrives, but three needles in a haystack aren't easier to find than one.

Too much people.

Will sits as far back as he can, maneuvering so that Hannibal is first to walk up the row and shield him from a talkative pair to their right. The seats to his left don't stay empty for long, though, and he closes his eyes.

Too much noise. Too much breathing from too many mouths. Everything too much.

He hears a "Will?"—Hannibal's voice—and shakes his head once.

Will tunes out the bulk of the dean's shpiel about the College's history—the founding of the town, why their school mascot is a raven—but snaps back into the present at the sound of a command.

"I want everyone to look around you and say hello to your neighbors. Go ahead." He pauses, awaiting compliance.

Will looks at Hannibal out of the corner of his eye and thinks he detects Hannibal doing the same to him, but neither speaks. Hannibal, of course, greets everyone else around him while Will avoids eye contact. He registers that a voice to his immediate left has said hello, and he turns to give a polite nod. Big green eyes look back at him, framed by long, brown hair. The sad smile she gives him ends abruptly at the sound of loud cackling.

"Looks like you and I are going to be friends, Carlo!" a nasal voice near-shouts, to the left of her. His hair is the same shade as hers. "Margot!" He squeezes her shoulder, keeping his hand there. "You will not believe where our new friend Carlo lives!"

A polite tap to the mic, then: "Okay, everyone, thank you for humoring me. I asked because"—he pauses long enough to scan the room and command their attention—"next to you, in front of you, behind you... One of those people is your future spouse." He seems to delight in the chorus of laughs that follows. "Now, now, hear me out—"

"It's not even legal yet!" a guy heckles.

Will doesn't care for the rest of it. He absolutely will not look to his left (in a better headspace he'd've exchanged a snide remark with her at the dean's expense), but to his right? His treacherous eyes seek and immediately find Hannibal's.

And they don't let go.

The dean goes on explaining the so-called statistics, but it's background noise. A corner of Hannibal's mouth twitches for just a blink, obvious amusement and dismissal of the man's fanciful prediction. Hannibal quirks an eyebrow at him in jest: _What do you say we go for it?_ it's saying. However, when Will looks deeper into those eyes, he thinks he can see cogs turning. 

Everyone claps to a successful year when it's over. Will manages to bolt past Hannibal and toward the exit but knows Hannibal is at his heels, itching to say something. "Since, according to the wise dean, we will be wed—"

But Will jumps at a hand placed on his shoulder, which turns out to belong to Beverly, and Hannibal falls silent.

"Will!" Beverly beams at him. "We were looking for you."

"I have big news!" Jimmy says, showing a coiled piece of paper around his ring finger.

"It's a placeholder, don't worry," she whispers into his ear.

"Beverly proposed!" Jimmy continues. "Right there on the accessibility ramp"—he points to the leftmost side of the room—"she got down on one knee, looked straight into my eyes, and said, 'Jimmy Price, would you do me the honor of having me as your lawfully wedded beard?'"

"I cried," Brian says.

Beverly snorts. "He cried because he was laughing so hard. People were giving him the stink-eye."

"That's why I cried. It made it that much funnier."

"So that was you laughing?" Will asks, "I thought I was hearing bleating."

As Beverly and Jimmy snicker and Brian glares at them, Hannibal steps up next to Will, no doubt waiting for introductions that Will hasn't the mental fortitude to give a shit about. Will looks at Hannibal, into his eyes again, and what he sees stays the reprimand on his tongue. Instead, he says his goodbyes for the night.

To them.


	6. Week One: Sucking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** for grotesque spider-related imagery in the second half of the third paragraph, starting after "cast in shadow." (Will is a strange young man.)

_Who are you?_

The evening is alight as boisterous laughs and singing crickets share the muggy air. Upperclassmen farther down West Campus dance in the first party of the year, and Will wonders if he'll ever become someone who parties the night before classes start. As he and Hannibal walk down the loggia in silence after the assembly, the thought seems especially absurd.

_Who are you?_ he wonders again. Hannibal's profile looks severe under so little light—mainly whatever manages to filter through bedroom windows to their left. Every two yards, an incandescent bulb shines its weak, yellow glow over their heads and leaves Hannibal's eyes cast in shadow. Noticing the bulbs share their recessed housing with spider webs, Will's mind merges the two images until clusters spin webs in Hannibal's empty sockets. Then a more accurate image takes shape: two identical wolf spiders, each ready to pounce on anything that looks in too closely. But Will isn't scared of spiders.

"Who are you?" he voices.

Hannibal presses his keycard to the reader and looks up. "What do you mean?"

At the sound of the click, Will opens and holds the door for them. "You're obviously socially competent, but I haven't seen you with friends."

A small group with a French accent picks that precise time to greet Hannibal by name. Will keeps walking even as he hears one of the women ask, "Qui est ton ami?" His French may be shit, but his half-ass Spanish manages to pick up the slack: _"Who's your friend?"_

He hasn't yet reached the landing for the third floor when Hannibal catches up to him and smiles. "I prefer my own company. Friendship serves its purpose at times."

He avoids looking at Hannibal and shoves a hand in his pocket for his key. "And what purpose do I serve?"

"If I am to socialize, I should do it with you."

"Why's that."

"I don't require planning ahead or leaving my room to talk to you. It's time efficient."

He snorts. "That… is assuming I'm interested in talking to you." He waits until Hannibal has shut the door behind them and returned his gaze to Will. "I am not."

Smugness overtakes Hannibal's previous, somewhat morose look. "You were before, for a moment. Our first night together. I watched you stomp on the light of curiosity as you masticated underseasoned rice and ground beef."

_Our first night **together**_. Will stares, arms crossed.

"If I tell you about my parents' death, will you return to me?"

"'Return'? Have I gone somewhere?"

"Haven't you?"

"What post have I supposedly abandoned? The dinner table? I eat with you once, and now I'm expected to join you every night? That was a courtesy dinner. I'm not obligated to do anything else with you."

Hannibal's mouth twitches downward. "While I appreciate courtesy, is it all dinner was?"

"Well, now it is," he mumbles, "or, was." Both turn their backs at once: Will to undress for bed and Hannibal to ready for his shower. "You are not making a strong case _for_ friendship. You want to tell me your sob story so that we can bond over it? Who do you think I am?"

"I—"

"Don't answer that," he calls over his shoulder. The position puts his eyes square to the closet, where its half-open curtain reveals a glossy mix of earth tones at the back. He sighs. "You think you're funny."

"Noticing it only now? I placed it there during your post-dinner brooding last night."

"If I was brooding, it was because you let one of Them in."

"Closing the door in our neighbors' faces is rude, Will."

"So is inviting oneself in and asking about the bestiality on the wall. I doubt you bought _that_ at the art sale."

"Leda and the Swan is not so—"

"Save it. I took art history." He flops onto the mattress, shielding his eyes with one arm and uncaring that his undershirt's ridden up his stomach.

An exhale audible from across the room, then: "In any case, you are right. I bought it online, at your suggestion." Will doesn't need to uncover his eyes to "see" the smile stretching Hannibal's mouth. "Your new friend, however, was exactly where you thought she would be."

" _Your_ closet now. _Your_ 'underwhelming' friend."

The quiet shuffle and clap of sandals on the floor sounds wrong; Will realizes he's never heard Hannibal's footsteps before. "Tell me what that look was about," he calls out as Hannibal opens the door.

"What look?"

Will lifts his head and sees only his reflection. At his side of the open door, the body-length mirror shines spotless. He trusts Hannibal is looking back at him through the other side. "You gave me a look just before we left the assembly, when I was talking to people," he tells himself.

Hannibal lets the door close and walks over to him wearing only a towel, and Will also realizes he's never seen Hannibal so bare. "Did I look at you strange?" Hannibal asks, eyes showing curiosity and... uncertainty? 

He swallows. "I'm good at reading people, but I can't read you, not always."

"Hm. Sounds like a thing that can be fixed with increased exposure to me."

_Asshole._ Will tosses back into the bed with a huff and hears the door close. He tries not to think about Hannibal's chest hair, but he does laugh in secret at the ticky-tacked Mona Lisa poster in their closet.

He doesn't get the appeal, either.

\- - - - -

Hannibal has spent plenty of time in front of a mirror. Perfecting facial expressions for any given occasion, training facial muscles not to betray his thoughts. Living with Will Graham will require even more practice, it seems.

Before showering he tries to recreate the face Will asked about, but he refuses to believe what he sees: longing.

He must've been aiming for disdain.

\- - - - -

Will's lesson in failure comes but one week into classes. He emails Alana and stares at his C+  
psychology paper in dismay.

"Maybe I should've joined the beatniks," he murmurs over coffee with her.

"What?"

"Nothing. Ignore me." He sips from his chipped mug and hums. The home brew at the student café, Photo 51, turns out to be pretty good (or damn good by home's standards).

Alana gifts him one of her kind smiles. "May I be your voice of reason?"

He forces himself to look away. "Please do."

"You know what you have to do. You know all the resources available to you."

"Yeah..."

"And you know you can always talk to your professors."

"...Nnnno." He grimaces. "I don't want to make excuses."

"Not excuses. Ask them how you can improve."

He shrugs. "It's common sense. Don't suck."

Alana smiles and shakes her head. "It's just a C, Will. That paper isn't even worth 5% of your grade. You know how many straight-A students come into college thinking that trend's going to keep? One little B, and they panic. I was there once, and I'm here to tell you you'll be fine."

Though Will nods, he doesn't feel any better. 

"And, honestly, I wish you'd told me you were thinking of taking a psychology class." Now she grimaces. "I could've told you to stay away from Chilton."

"Psychology was a last-minute act of desperation—no offense. The intro chemistry section I wanted was full. Messed up all my planning." He sighs into his mug. "But turns out there's a familiar face in the section I'm stuck with now, at least."

"Well, good!"

"With the worst possible professor to take intro with."

"Well, bad!"

As they laugh, Will feels stress draining from his body at last. He could look at her all day, he thinks.

"So?"

He clears his throat. "So, now I know. Run everything by you first."

"Will!"

"Alright, okay. I will maybe someday talk to my professors if I continue sucking."

She furrows her brow, then smiles. "Guess I'll have to take that as a victory."

Alana leaves for class but not before giving him a damn good hug. The smell of her perfume lingers on his shirt, and a pea brained part of him wants to keep it unwashed while the touch starved part clings to the memory of her arms around him.

He adds laundry to the top of his to-do list.

"Having an academic crisis, Will? I couldn't help but to overhear."

Fuckin' Hannibal. "What do you want?"

"I thought I would provide my own words of advice."

Will scowls. "Lovely."

"Keep an eye out for insecure professors. Never undermine their intelligence."

"You say this because?"

"I read your paper, of course."

"Of course."

"It met all the requirements and surpassed the level of insight asked of you. I am not yet an expert in English grammar and spelling, but it appeared to have no errors, either. Your Dr. Chilton's syllabus, however, did. His choice in reading material also seemed outdated."

"Well, you're not wrong there."

"He may see you as a threat to his ego."

"I doubt I'm the smartest student in the room. Plus, he's on tenure track; you'd think he would've come across more insightful students by now and, I don't know, learned to cope."

"Maybe he copes by giving them a C+." Hannibal's nostrils flare as he leans forward. “It’s good to be underestimated, you know. Lull people into a false sense of security, and you have the upper hand.”

"Uh... yeah... I don't think that goes for grades, though."

"Mm. Well—" Hannibal claps his hands to the table and stands. "That coffee of yours smells acceptable. I may order it for myself. See you later, Will."

Will keeps his eyes on his mug but lifts a hand in a half-hearted goodbye gesture. Between an ever-blossoming crush on his mentor and an increasingly creepy roommate, he can say at the very least his life seems balanced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~It cuts off at a weird place again, I know. I'm trying to play catch-up and force Will to tell me more about himself. I have like 90% of this story outlined, but he's not helping >:(~~ I now stand by this cutoff point! :)
> 
> Meanwhile I like how Hannibal's out here creeping and thirsting in the background with no explanation. Even I'm not giving him enough attention XD
> 
> (But I love him, and that's going to change)


	7. Week Won: Spraying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Important:** As Hannibal's behavior is becoming increasingly unacceptable (that's an understatement), I want to remind everyone that [stalking](http://victimsofcrime.org/our-programs/stalking-resource-center/stalking-information) is neither romantic nor harmless.
> 
> [[Tbh I know nothing about Harrisverse Judy, so she's getting a Fulleresque treatment]]

Alana Bloom's cloying perfume smell burns in Hannibal's nostrils. He has detected it on Will before, but it lingers much stronger now. They must have hugged while Hannibal's insufferable musical theory classmate commanded his attention.

He returns to his corner table, where the insufferable classmate has made himself at home and spread open some kind of literature primer. _"You seem very interested in the boy with the green T-shirt,"_ Anthony observes in (tolerable) French.

Hannibal sips his tolerable espresso and turns his attention back to Anthony. _"He's interesting to look at."_

_"Indeed. Is he your roommate? A little birdie told me you get googly-eyed around that mystery boy in your life."_

Four tables over, an oblivious Will gathers his things and leaves.

_"A most stupid bird,"_ Hannibal says.

\- - - - -

Will's work-study assignment in the dining hall is easy compared to his time in the boat yards—the most difficult part may be sitting through chemistry lectures right after. Alana's roommate, Judy, turns out to be a (very outgoing) student trainer for heart-of-the-house jobs. She teaches him the basics of rinsing out trays and running the sorting belt, all the while blasting an eclectic playlist from the stereo at the back of the room.

"So, Will," she says during a lull in the breakfast shift, elbow against a flat metal surface and palm supporting her chin, "when Alana told you to keep an eye out for me, did she call me Judy?" Their faces are a foot apart and their eyes are aligned.

Somehow Will doesn’t feel the need to back away. "Yeah. Wrong?"

"It's a nickname. Short for Julieta Delmar: J-U- _D_. It's for when I get tired of people butchering the pronunciation or making Romeo and Juliet jokes."

"Hoo-lee-EH-ta?" Will tries.

"The I and E form a diphthong," says a gravelly voice to his left. Sad green eyes, long brown hair. It's the first time Will's heard Margot speak even though their shift started 15 minutes ago. "Hoo-LYEH-ta."

Judy smiles. "You can call me Julieta all you want." To Will: "I'm going back to loading. Scream for help if you need me."

A new song starts playing and, like all the songs that came before it, he doesn't recognize it. Judy looks delighted, though, and sings along with the soft, melancholic voice. "I was looking for a job and then I found a job"—she reaches for a slotted spoon to hold as a microphone—"and heaven knows I'm miserable now!"

Will laughs. "Who is this?"

Judy becomes a blur of thick, curly hair as she dances. ( _When did she take her hair down?!_ ) "The Smiths!" she says.

He and Margot wear similar blank looks on their faces, and Judy looks near-horrified. "Morrissey...? Seriously, neither of you knows?! Oh my _god_ I'll have to teach you then." She returns to singing, busy now with loading pots and pans onto the rack.

Margot looks at Will. “Extroverts,” she says, before they start spraying down the trays coming down the line.

As Will expends considerable effort on a cup with globs of peanut butter and oatmeal inside, he breaks the silence anew. "May I make an observation?"

Margot rinses her hands clean, then looks up. "Be my guest."

"You look like you don't belong here."

"Why do you say that?"

The brooch pinning Margot's hair back is gold with emerald accents. She's using too much water pressure to rinse the plates and cups and holding everything at awkward angles. Her impeccable posture is the stuff of etiquette coaches who slap their students' hands with a ruler at the hint of a slouch. "You look like you have money."

Margot huffs. "Oh, we have money," she drawls with flat affect, "Papa has enough money on hand to buy this place twice over, at least. He just wanted to humble me." Her face scrunches in disgust at a plate of half-chewed sausage and balled up napkins. "He made a _considerable_ donation to make sure I was assigned a job here." A pause. "Of course, he didn't think my brother, too, could use a good humbling."

_Hair the same shade as hers. He squeezes her shoulder and keeps his hand there._ Will nods. "The favorite child?"

"I imagine it's based on Mason having a penis," she says, matter-of-fact. "He was always the choleric, insufferable twin. Doted on from the start." She clears her throat. "My proclivities running for the wrong parts, Papa takes every opportunity to remind me of my place. Breeding is very important to him, after all."

Will's brow quirks.

"The Verger Meat-packing Dynasty, as he likes to call it. Mostly we raise and slaughter hogs."

"Huh. Sounds very lucrative."

"Like I said"—she picks bits of meat out of her fingernails—"we have money."

In the background, Judy and Dylan sing about a young child beside a dead pony.

\- - - - - 

Hannibal has Will's schedule memorized now—it's how he knows he has plenty of time to wash the shirt Will wore yesterday.

Dining hall shifts and introductory classes in chemistry, biology, psychology, and music. The latter is a pleasant surprise; he wonders if Will actively chose it or scrambled for any fine arts class he found open. He knows Will had to replace physics with psychology. During class signups he'd seen Will's dejected face from across the gymnasium. Inching toward a table between the hard sciences and social sciences tables as if the professor stationed there had just strangled his uncle, Will had scrunched his face at the sheet of psychology class openings and sighed.

Then again, maybe Will isn't the type to be meek about strangled uncles. Hannibal caught the tail end of one of Will's nightmares last night—whispered threats suit Will's mouth beautifully.

"I can hear you thinking, Hannibal."

He inhales then exhales slowly. "Beautiful morning to sneak up on a person, Bedelia."

She inspects his face, the corners of her mouth upturned. "I detect a subtle sheen of sweat on your forehead. What are you up to that showering could wait?"

"After today's class, I'm feeling particularly light on my feet. I'm seizing the day."

"Is this how you normally seize days? Smelling of a dance studio and feet?"

He stops halfway down the stone path to look at her. "Today it will have to do. A friend needs me."

Back in their room, Hannibal collects his linens and tosses Will's shirt in the wash along with them. He puts it back in Will's hamper once it finishes drying, then he's out the door once more. For research.

\- - - - -

As expected, taking intro chemistry with the head of the chemistry department isn't going so well. Ten minutes in, Will is falling into a delicate dreamscape where chicken bones refuse to wash out of cups. He escapes the dream very suddenly after Brian tries sneaking in late through the back door.

"MR. ZELLER."

Brian, under the illusion that Dr. Crawford hadn't heard him enter, squeaks.

"GLAD YOU COULD JOIN US. Take a seat."

Will's heart is still racing even after Brian settles next to him, shaking pen in hand. "Christ, I won't be sleepy for the rest of the day," Will whispers, "so thanks, I guess."

Brian's reply is a small, higher pitched whisper: "Any time."

Before class had started on their first day, they'd lamented not joining Beverly and Jimmy in the 200-level class.

"I got a 4 on the AP chem exam. Just shy of being good enough," Will had joked.

"Yeah... I may have been in a Mood on testing day and doodled on the margins a lot and answered the questions not a lot."

"I didn't even get a score back for AP Spanish. I had to piss through most of it and wasn't going to get higher than a 2 anyway. I just wish I knew what happened to my exam."

"The AP scoring dog ate it."

Will's quiet snort had attracted the attention of Dr. Crawford, who proceeded to glare at them both. Will made a point of looking serious thereafter.

"Next week," Dr. Crawford continues, "you're going to start using the lab equipment in earnest, so this next part is important." He looks back at their table. "Especially if you don't want to get somebody killed."

\- - - - -

Hannibal learns Alana's schedule as well. Just for fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get it? Spraying? Like animal scent-marking? Ba-dum-tiss!
> 
> [Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TjPhzgxe3L0), The Smiths  
> [A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T5al0HmR4to), Bob Dylan
> 
> P.S. This is more or less [the type of dishwashing setup they're working with](http://www.meiko-uk.co.uk/en/products/food-waste-systems/vacuum-systems/wastestar-fc/)


	8. Quitting Time

It's on Sunday evening before the second week of classes that Will does laundry. It's ten seconds into collecting his hamper that he detects it—the smell of a different laundry detergent? He digs through the clothes and gives one particular shirt a cautious sniff. Alana's perfume is gone, replaced with...

He's been talking (without participating) fine dining with Hannibal and turns now to make eye contact as the latter goes on about reductions.

Hannibal's face remains impassive.

Will maintains hard eye contact for two beats too long.

Hannibal brings up consommés, unaffected.

Will gives up.

It's before they settle down for the night on Monday that Will confronts Hannibal about it.

Hannibal acts offended that Will would ask such a thing.

Will gets pissed and ends up at Tita's Kitchen for alone time. The owner gives him free hot chocolate while they talk Hannibal Lecter.

It's during Wednesday lunch that Will chances upon Hannibal metaphorically chewing the fat with the sous chef who hasn't taken well to Will, Margot, or just about any other dining hall employee on the non-cooking side of things. Julieta, though, she seems to have grudgingly accepted.

Fresh from a discussion about roommate woes with Brian—who claims to have made peace with his own cranky roommate over weekend brunch, and insists food is the answer to everything—Will decides to bite the bullet and extend an invite.

He brings his empty tray over, certain beyond a doubt that he's walking head-on into a social interaction fiasco. When Hannibal spots Will, the former takes on the responsibility of initiating contact. "What a pleasant surprise, Will. Our paths don't tend to cross in the afternoons."

"Yes..." He nods a greeting to the sous chef, then turns right back around. (She huffs.) "Would you like to have lunch? W—"

"Another pleasant surprise. How could I refuse?" Of course he'd look smug at this. _Of course_.

"Cool," Will says, laconic and awkward. "We are sitting at a corner booth—"

"Oh. A group gathering?"

He nods, curt, because he knows what's coming.

"Then I must decline, regrettably. I don't feel up to socializing beyond a dyad level." The bastard has the nerve to look contrite.

Will glares.

"My apologies," Hannibal continues. To the sous chef: "Daria, thank you again for humoring me. I shall talk to you soon."  
Hannibal directs a polite smile at her, then gives him an almost imperceptible bow in parting. "Will."

Sighing, Will stays in place and stares off into the distance.

Brian has the worst damn advice.

\- - - - -

The next morning, over a shift they don't share with Margot, Will recounts the encounter to Julieta. Today's playlist involves a liberal sprinkling of Blondie and Spanish pop.

"An angry huff isn't too bad. Chef Daria called me HUH-lee-etta for months before she gravitated toward Judy. Half the time I'm Julie. You know this one time she called me July?"

"That's kinda funny."

"It's ridic." She recoils at the strong onion odor from a plastic container. 

"It'd be a shame to let it go to waste as a nickname, satirically speaking..."

"Oh, believe me, every once in a while Alana likes to surprise me." She tosses the container into the rinsing tank with a little too much force.

Will snorts. "You know how some people in the south would pronounce your name?"

Julieta's response being nonverbal and somewhat distracted, Will lets the silence hang.

"How?" she demands.

He puts down the large stock pot he's been scraping at, pauses dramatically, and hovers his hand over his chest. "Oh-bless-your-heart."

"Fuckin' shit!" She laughs and drops a heavy skillet into the soapy water, splashing them both. "I'd be fighting motherfuckers all day!"

"Plenty motherfuckers to fight in some parts." Will examines his soaked belly and decides not to care. "Thanks a lot," he mumbles nonetheless.

"You're a coastal kid, you'll be alright." Something catches her eye then. She taps at his chest until sudsy prints soak through. "Will, hey. Hey, look." She points down the hallway into the kitchen, where Hannibal is getting a tour.

"For fuck's sa—isn't that some kind of health code violation?!"

"What, allowing tall, mysterious boys near the food?" she teases. "Not like he's cooking without a hairnet. He's not even touching anythi—aaaand now he's touching."

"Now that I think about it, he has his sleeves pulled up high. He probably—throw me that—he probably washed up to his elbows with scalding water for forty seconds. He's over-the-top like that."

"You know what I always say." She tosses the soft sponge and he catches it, both of them one-handed and without looking, as Hannibal leans over inspecting the industrial oven.

Will makes it up on the fly: "'One can never be too careful handling lettuce.'"

"That's the one."

After Hannibal says his goodbyes to the kitchen staff, his eyes find Will's on the first try, to neither of their surprise. He gives Will the once-over and winks on the way out.

Julieta's laugh pulls Will out of his reverie. "Dammit, Will Graham!"

It turns out he dropped the stock pot and splashed them, too.

\- - - - -

Dr. Crawford is covering Will's chem lab for the day. Will expects him to say something about his soaked work shirt and the prevailing smell of food particles and dirty water, but he only nods in acknowledgement as Will takes his seat.

"You smell like wet onion."

Will sighs. "You hated me last lab, Freddie, and the time we spoke before that, so why are you sitting here."

"I enjoy a good banter."

"I don't."

"Makes me enjoy it more."

Misfortune shined down upon Will when proper freshman orientation introduced him to Freddie Lounds: a bundle of loud red curls and nosy blue eyes atop equally loud dresses. There'd been an unapologetic curiosity about her that wouldn't quit, and her tone of voice during those insufferable fifteen minutes had left much to be desired and then some. She has a sixth sense about finding where she's least welcome, this one, as if she feeds off people's disdain. Clear as day, he can see her making YouTube videos about her "haters."

He looks around the lab and finds his mark in the quiet blonde girl closest to the door. The type of girl who's so sweet she finds the best in everyone and who's too sweet for anyone to hate in turn. He figures it's early enough in the semester. Lab partners aren't cemented in stone, right?

"Hey, Wendy, right?" He'll turn on the charm for this. "Would you mind switching tables with me?" A shy, apologetic smile. "Just in case. For embarrassing, TMI reasons involving too many burritos last night?"

"Oh, no! Ha, ha! Sorry to hear that. Yeah, sure."

Wendy gathers her things, Will grins at Freddie, and Freddie's mouth hangs open ever so slightly.

"Hope you feel better!" Wendy tells him.

He works the muscles of his face to smile with eyes and all. "Thank you."

\- - - - -

"You should've fought for that score, Mr. Graham."

Will is lagging behind as students file out of class. Dr. Crawford's voice reaches no other ears. "Sir?"

"Your AP Spanish exam. Regardless of the improbability of it serving you in this institution." He grabs his copy of the intro textbook—with its neat, color-coded page markers and unmarred corners—and places it inside his leather briefcase. "You went above and beyond in your college readiness by sitting through it. Someone's mistake went unchecked and stripped you of something you earned."

He nods once.

"Is that a southern twang that you hide well?"

"Yes, sir. Maybe not well enough." Mostly ridding himself of it took less time than he thought it would. Jimmy's Minnesotan accent sometimes takes over when Will pronounces "eggs" as "aygs," and "wash" somehow gains a soft R. Beverly and Brian's accents seem closest to the American standard, so Will follows Beverly's lead by saying soda when he means coke, as well as Brian's by saying pies when he means pizza. But, still another's accent snakes closer...

Dr. Crawford walks to the exit, and Will knows to follow. "This school doesn't have a good track record for recruiting country boys. I assume your AP exam fees were waved based on income?"

"Yes, sir, they were."

They descend a cement stairwell to the pleasant echoes of Dr. Crawford's steady pace. "You'll have to work harder than some of your peers just to be taken seriously, both by students and faculty alike. I see it all the time. I can give hell to my faculty for disrespecting working class students, students of color, LGBT students... But I can't do much about everyone else's actions."

"I understand."

At the landing between the second and first floors, Dr. Crawford pauses to regard him. "May I ask why you didn't?"

Why allow it to happen. "Besides the hassle of calling... I thought it best to leave a failure off my record, so to speak."

Near the glass door that leads out into a shaded courtyard, Dr. Crawford pauses once more with his hand over the push bar. "I sat in the admissions committee last year, Mr. Graham. Someone else reviewed your application, but she read us your essay out loud. I wouldn't have seen that score as a failure."

Will doesn't know how to respond.

"Regardless, you should always own your failures. You can learn from them, and they don't always disappear into thin air. Neither do problems—from eviction notices down to bothersome lab partners." He gives Will a pointed look. "Don't make a habit of running."

Dr. Crawford walks out the door and leaves Will to process their conversation.

_Well, shit._


	9. The Maim Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the new tags.
> 
> Btw I'm really sorry if you're on mobile on an Android and the formatting goes to shit. My research says there's nothing I can do, especially because of the limited html (but if you know of a way, please let me know!)

> To: Price, James [pricejam@hartwell.edu]; Zeller, Brian B. [zellerbr1@hartwell.edu]; Graham, William [grahamwi1@hartwell.edu]  
>  From: Katz, Beverly [katzbeve@hartwell.edu]  
>  Date: Fri, Sep 21, 7:52 AM  
>  Subject: Friday Night Super Study
> 
> We’re doing this. It’s happening. We won’t cram on Sunday night like a band of amateurs. Venue suggestions?
> 
>  
> 
> To: Katz, Beverly [katzbeve@hartwell.edu]; Price, James [pricejam@hartwell.edu]; Zeller, Brian B. [zellerbr1@hartwell.edu]  
>  From: Graham, William [grahamwi1@hartwell.edu]  
>  Date: Fri, Sep 21, 9:54 AM  
>  Subject: RE: Friday Night Super Study
> 
> Tita’s Kitchen downtown opens at 9p and doesn’t close until morning. Has a comfy couch.
> 
>  
> 
> To: Price, James [pricejam@hartwell.edu]; Zeller, Brian B. [zellerbr1@hartwell.edu]; Graham, William [grahamwi1@hartwell.edu]  
>  From: Katz, Beverly [katzbeve@hartwell.edu]  
>  Date: Fri, Sep 21, 10:07 AM  
>  Subject: RE: RE: Friday Night Super Study
> 
> Going once, twice, thrice. Sold. Dinner on Wee Graham, everyone. Breakfast on Price Jam because jam, obviously. Brian can buy all the snacks in between, because that’s what bros do. First round of coffee on me ;-)
> 
>  
> 
> To: Katz, Beverly [katzbeve@hartwell.edu]; Price, James [pricejam@hartwell.edu]; Zeller, Brian B. [zellerbr1@hartwell.edu]  
>  From: Graham, William [grahamwi1@hartwell.edu]  
>  Date: Fri, Sep 21, 11:38 AM  
>  Subject: RE: RE: RE: Friday Night Super Study
> 
> I hate you, Beav. (Brian concurs.)

\- - - - -

Bach's (purported) [Toccata and Fugue in D minor, BWV 565](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ho9rZjlsyYY), accompanies Hannibal's sketching as he relaxes before bed. While his window is mostly quiet, Will's window lets in too much noise from the drunkards below. The organ is doing a commendable job drowning them out.

Soon after the toccata section, Will returns to their room with the not-Alana ("Beverly") in tow and begins cramming more textbooks than is possible into his rucksack.

“You look like you’re about to run away,” Hannibal observes.

“It’s for an overnighter.”

He sets down and aligns his pencil with the vertical lines of his childhood window. “Why would you need to do such a thing?”

Will looks from Beverly to Hannibal and shrugs. “Isn’t that what normal college students do?”

“There is nothing normal about sleep deprivation, Will. If you manage your time—”

“Well, we can’t all be creepy levels of organized like you.”

Perhaps Will meant it in jest—he seems to be in an amicable mood, after all—but Hannibal snaps. “Don’t come back before 6. I won’t have you interrupting my sleep.” He dismisses their presence, and everything but his sketchbook and pencil ceases to exist. The organ, too, fails to overpower the gentle scratching of graphite on paper.

He regrets the outburst once the door shuts behind them.

He doesn't hear that beyond the door Beverly jokes, "Was he listening to the Fantasia soundtrack?"

\- - - - -

They rendezvous outside Jimmy's room. As the RA for the second floor taped names and retro toy representations on everyone's door, what greets Will and Beverly makes them snicker: "John" with a picture of Stretch Armstrong and "Jimmy" with one of Strawberry Shortcake.

"What I wanna know is, _is_ John buff and bendy, and is he single?" Beverly asks. They have yet to catch sight of the reclusive roommate, though they've been assured he's nothing to wonder over.

"Well, Jimmy isn't a redhead with a bonnet," Will points out.

Said person projects from inside the room, "Nor do I smell of fruit." He is out the door and locking up behind him as Brian walks up and snorts.

"The name is John. Jimmy John," Brian says in an impressive Sean Connery accent.

"I don’t get it," Will admits.

Beverly rolls her eyes at Brian's finger gun. "Jimmy John's is a sub franchise, and Brian isn't actually funny."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Brian protests, "classic Bond plus sandwiches? Gold."

Their little group treks down the back stairwell and out into the evening—Beverly and Jimmy to study for the first Chem II exam, and Will and Brian for the first of Chem I. The brief distance from campus to the downtown shops clustered within a square mile lends itself to a pleasant walk. Scattered loud voices and a singular howl, of all things, point to other groups of students readying to unwind for the weekend.

"What are we walking into, anyway?" Jimmy asks Will. "Is it a coffee shop?"

"Not really. It dabbles in coffee shop and breakfast diner offerings, but its true passion is being a Filipino family restaurant."

"Holy shit, how did you find this?" asks Brian.

"Wait." Beverly stops walking. "Isn't Filipino food heavy on pork?"

"My mentor Alana," Will answers Brian, "and yeah, I guess."

She frowns. "Will. You should've said something before you invited us here."

Will shrugs. "They have vegetarian stuff."

"'Vegetarian stuff'?!" She pinches him. "That's all you have to say?!"

"The adobo chicken's really good."

"Unbelievable." She resumes walking. The genuine disappointment in her face, somewhat hidden by a playful façade, would make Will feel like shit if he wasn't about to surprise her.

"Good thing I don't keep kosher, or I'd pinch you too," whispers Brian to his left.

"I oughtta pinch you on principle," whispers Jimmy to his right.

"You'll see," he tells them.

The restaurant is more crowded than either of his previous visits, but the noise level remains polite enough, and the coveted study couch (impossible to find empty on Sunday and early Monday mornings, he hears) is open. "Tita!" he greets.

The small woman behind the counter lights up and abandons her post to hug him. "Will! Good to see you! That skinny boy still giving you trouble?"

"Always," he tells her.

Even two weeks ago Will wouldn't have believed it—that he could be a willing (and happy) recipient of physical affection from a relative stranger. One impulsive decision to get away from Hannibal, and he finds a home among bright yellow walls.

"Bring him by one day. Maybe a good meal will calm him down."

"Heh, I'll try. Tita, this is Beverly. Would you mind showing her the second kitchen?"

"Yes, of course! Are you vegan, Beverly? Nut allergies?" She squeezes Beverly's shoulders and smiles warmly.

"Um, no? Wh—"

"Kosher, then!"

Beverly's eyes widen. "Yes! Really?"

"Let me show you," she says and leads her into the newer, smaller kitchen.

Will knows they built it a few years ago at the expense of seating. It's an awkward, impractical, imperfect setup. Labeled pots and pans and utensils that can't ever touch meat and dairy share a space with those that can touch only meat or dairy. Two sinks and three mini fridges at opposite ends. The cooks must wash their hands and change into clean aprons if they're switching from the first kitchen and be especially weary of tracking allergens. They can't promise zero contamination, so they keep an EpiPen on hand. Still, some of it is more care than the dining hall shows. 

Alana told him about a girl who's deadly allergic to peanuts but eats here all the time. Before he saw how hard the family works to make people feel welcome, to give them a home away from home, Will would've labeled that as reckless behavior.

After light bickering over what to order, Jimmy claims the chair adjacent to the couch while Brian plops down in the middle of the couch. Will gets their orders straight in the meantime. The internal debate about where he should sit lasts but a second: the end of the couch closest to the window must go to Bev, as it's also closest to Jimmy. He sighs.

At her return, Beverly wraps an arm around Will and plants a kiss over his cheek. "You're an asshole, Graham."

"Love you too, Beverly," he mutters.

She settles and hands Jimmy a stack of blank notecards then looks to Brian and Will. "Want in on flashcard making?"

"God, yes," says Brian, taking from her stack.

She waits on a response from Will. "Don't need 'em," he tells her. Off her prompting look: "I have a good visual memory."

Beverly looks suspicious. "How good?"

"Uh... eidetic good..."

Jimmy's eyes widen. "You bastard!"

"What? What happened?" asks Brian.

"The short answer is photographic memory happened"—Beverly glares at Will—"and I don't know if I can be Will's friend anymore. Jealousy goggles are setting in."

Will laughs. "Structural formulas floating around in my head are useless if I can't make sense of the hows and whys." He lifts and shakes his chemistry textbook for emphasis.

"Oh, boo-hoo," says Jimmy, turning his body away from them all.

Will snorts. "Et tu, Brian?"

"I mean, I'm not going to stab you for it. What are your thoughts on test answers and 'sharing is caring'?"

"I'll share my corn fritters with you."

Brian sighs. "Good enough."

"So who's this 'skinny boy' giving you trouble?" asks Jimmy, playing at jumping into boy talk.

"Oh. Hannibal. She thinks his face looks too gaunt."

"He got snippy with Will just before we left," Beverly adds.

"I probably could've been more obvious I was joking."

"I call BS. You shouldn't have to telegraph your every intention to get respect," she says.

Brian looks like he's feeling left out. "He's not not-attractive..." It gets him a knowing look from Jimmy.

Beverly leans forward suddenly. "Will. How does she know what Hannibal looks like?"

He feels caught. "She may have asked to see his student directory picture the last time I was here." They all stare at him. "She saw I looked upset and demanded to know who'd messed with me."

"Okay, this place is getting a 5-star Yelp review," says Brian.

\- - - - -

Will's nearing forty-two sleepless hours (with only a few 15-minute naps stolen in between) when at last he shuffles his way back home. Not that he would admit it, but Hannibal was right: Will has no need for all-nighters. Even with dining hall shifts taking up most of his mornings and weekend afternoons, he manages to study just fine. But he's always done that.

What he hasn't always done is spent a night snacking on good food and drinking hot chocolate with friends. Or, even, picking up an extra shift so that he'll have the money to do it again. And again. Regular sleep schedule be damned.

There's a party happening in the first floor lounge in Gallagher, music playing obnoxiously loud, but Will hardly cares. He's so tired he'll sleep through it like the booming bass is the sound of a light rain. He enters through the back, and the stale beer smell that greets him does nothing to diminish his happiness. Home. So close.

Then, before all of his mind catches up, his fist is connecting with cartilage and bone.

\- - - - -

Will grimaces, repeating a series of flexing his fingers and balling his fist, as he enters the room.

Hannibal, who is still awake for reasons he would rather not think about, watches with fascination and worry. "Will? What happened to your hand?"

"I punched a Nazi."

Hannibal stares. Opens his mouth. "Oh." He blinks, then walks to his closet to retrieve his first aid kit. "While I am furious that one walks among us, I am glad to know their face, presumably, got what it deserved. I hope most of that blood is theirs?"

Will lowers himself onto his desk chair. "Broke his nose, yeah." Then: "You keep a first aid kit in there?"

"I like to be prepared. Here." He spreads Will's hand flat on the desk and dabs at the blood with an alcohol wipe. "Tell me what happened."

"I was headed upstairs. I saw this asshole doodling a swastika on the wall. He looked up when he heard me. Scared at first, then he relaxed. Then he reconsidered. He was drunk, so he was confused about who I am and what I would do."

"And who you are is someone with no patience for who he is."

Will frowns. "It may have been impulsive."

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Will. I would've done the same, at least."

"At least," Will parrots, emphasizing the S and hard T sounds. He appears to have gone elsewhere. "I should've killed him," he mumbles.

Hannibal smiles. He pins the gauze wrap around Will's hand, then sets his hand down gently. “How would you do it?”

Will frowns, coming back to himself. “What?”

“How would you kill him?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“For fear of being caught, perhaps. But if it were not an issue?”

“In a hypothetical world where I could commit the perfect crime and never so much as be a suspect?”

_What a wonderful world_ , Hannibal muses. “Yes.”

“I’d beat the smile off his face, the one he wore in that millisecond before he saw me. Watch it twist into horror and then into something unrecognizable.”

"Beautiful."

Will gives him a questioning look.

"There's an honesty in that. No weapons—only emotions made tangible, given not only a voice but agency in this world."

"Okay," Will says, flat. Gone elsewhere once again.

"You did the right thing, Will. Now. I believe you are overdue your rest."

Will nods and pushes off the desk. He climbs into bed, noticing now that he got blood on his shirt and taking it off.

"I'll wash it for you," Hannibal assures him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Haters will say eidetikers aren't real." –Thomas Harris (kidding. Please don't sue me)  
> [Look at that beautiful example under Literature.](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/PhotographicMemory)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading <3  
> Please leave kudos/comments (a smiley face/heart/just about any other proof of life) if you enjoyed your stay :)  
> 


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